Yellow Journalism
by Rhea Abgrund
Summary: Alfred is a journalist who needs to come up with a story quick that will sell! But does he go a bit overboard in the process? Human AU, one shot.


The seeming endless click-clacking of the keys on the typewriter went through the air, leaving only the thumps against the bare walls as they disbanded like drops falling from a leaky sink into a full basin of water. Clink! The next line starts, followed by a few more clacks slowing down before winding down all together and leaving the room hollow of everything, except the man sitting at his dark wood desk, a window, and the large type writer. Alfred F. Jones wiped his cheek of some sweat before staring down at the paper. The headline took up a third of the page, his palm meeting face; this rest of this article was due by the end of the day! How could he possibly hope to finish by then?

Light filtered through the blinds of the space of a room, leaving small fiery patches in its wake. A light beam focused on a few words on the article, nothing important other than making the paper hot as well as Jones. The rest of the room, despite its lack of all things, seemed hotter on the paper. It was hardly personal, after all Jones could be fired at any time and replaced. He let out a frustrated sigh as another bead of sweat went back down his neck and tried in vain to cool him down from his anger. 'It's so damn hot!' He typed to blow off some steam. The black lettering stood out from the rest of the 'knowledgeable' article.

The piece of paper was matted up into a deformed ball and thrown into the corner accompanied by other unsuccessful starts to his article. His hung in the air in the proper place; he should have been a sports writer. He stood up picking up the last piece of paper, rolling it up in the writer and staring at him. The emptiness was like the room, it was taunting him. It knew he could be fired if it didn't fill it would the brilliance of his words lighting the way in this dark, dark world, as well as fill his boss's wallet.

'The Sinking of the U.S.S. Maine in Havana Harbor ' His fingers typed out hesitantly. At least three of those paper balls in the corner were from the misspelling of the word 'Havana' and he didn't want to get up again, he felt repressed by the heat. Repressed by the room, the paper, by his boss! His hands grabbed the type writer and shook it violently, stirring up the air to give some relief for the heat. He needed a break; his feet rested on the table and his arms went behind his neck to hopefully rub some coolness in him.

The lone ceiling fan didn't work; he tried before he had even started writing. And again in the last five minutes, wouldn't start-up. Thanks to his boss, he guessed. The man who said he could write about anything! It didn't need to be related to the topic, it just needed to sell papers at 15 cents. He wasn't going to call writers block, oh no, Alfred F. Jones was far too cocky to admit defeat where an idea was just looming underneath the surface like wreckage of a boat below sea level, ready to pounce out and grab someone by the arm and shout 'Hey! Hey idiot! Look at me! Look at me!' His legs bounced on the table thumping loudly like he was in pain. He was in pains to think about something to say about the U.S.S Maine.

The telegraph had come in with the news, 'U.S.S Maine sunk, in Havana Harbor,' it said nothing else! How was he expected to make a story out of a sentence? Not even a descriptive sentence at that. They should have given someone more capable the big news story, and leave Alfred with the weather report. That would be easier than this! News Flash: City is Melting From Massive Heat Wave! His feet slammed on the floor with a loud thump that probably echoed through the halls of the entire building and knocked down his glasses from his face. A uncertain finger pushed them back up, half expecting his boss to barge in to knock them down again. It rested on the table and began tapping quickly, like Morse code trying to tell him the answer.

What did he know about Spain? His free hand rested on his cheek in thought. Next to nothing was the answer. He had been to college and he hardly knew about one of the former great empires in the world! He wasn't sure if he had slept through his classes or he was never taught, but it still seemed rather odd. What could he come up with about Spain that would sell papers? That seemed like the better question. A devious smirk formed on his face like the sweat on his brow as his fingers returned to the keys of the type writer.

'On early Wednesday last week,' He typed out, not caring about what day the ship was sunk. It didn't matter, it needed to sell papers he told himself. The public wouldn't have a clue. The paper quickly filled up about a story that involved a massive torpedo from the Spanish Army hitting the great ship that had helped the Americans in so many battles, including decisive battles against the Mesopotamians (someone would edit it later and make sure these empires seemed reasonable. At the moment, Alfred couldn't care less, this paper needed to be inked in black, pronto.) and the Jabberwockies. Just like how the pterodactyls. The battle was spectacular! The greatest naval battle in American history! The U.S.S Maine had continued to fight despite its crippling hits and eventually lost over 100,000 men as a result. He knew it was lying but it didn't matter! Sensationalism sold papers, not facts. The words flowed on to the paper like water in a stream, and seemed believable like the narwhals that swim through the northern sea.

He was in mid-sentence when the paper was full. The immediate urge was to flip his desk and type writer with it, but some sense came to him. He simply stood up, his boots thumping all the way out the door, into the cigarette smoke-filled room as a paper boy was passing by. This boy, not really a boy but given the title because it sounded better than paper man, was sunken in all the way down to his bright green eyes.

A worn down smile was on his face as Alfred looked at him, one that promised the entire world back in whatever country he was from, but here in the big city meant nothing. He was tannish, and his dark brown hair needed a comb like a small child needed a bath. The man blinked for a moment before looking down at the papers he was holding, thinking they were what Alfred was staring at. His arms brought them forward, cautiously with the smile still plastered on his face.

"Si sir? Do you need something?" The man asked, his Castilian lisp clear in his accent. Alfred raised a brow at the man, realizing this was a golden opportunity. He opened one of his hands to the man as he picked a single piece of paper. With his other hand, Alfred swatted the papers up to the sky. They went up like displaced water from a cannon and the man went down on his knees trying to catch them all, shouting, "I'm sorry! Lo siento! It was my fault!"

He nodded smugly. "You're right, it was your fault. I say you Spaniards get the heck out of my country! How dare you sink the U.S.S Maine!" The man looked up at Alfred with a concerned look on his face.

"Que? I mean, what? I have done nothing sir, except drop these papers." Alfred smirked back down at the man, pealing a piece of paper of the floor slowly in front of him.

"Sure you did. That's what I like to here. Now listen to me, Remember the U.S.S. Maine, and to hell with Spain, got it?"

"But sir I—" The man realized Alfred could possibly be the very man he was working for. He bit his tongue and gave a small nod. "Si, yes, sir."

"Good! Tell your friends too!" He marched back into his room to finish his paper, fresh with new ideas of the confrontation.

Antonio looked up from the papers littering the ground around him as he saw the door slam shut in front of him, scattering the collected papers yet again. Under his breath, making sure no one around him could hear, "Damn the Maine, Viva España."

* * *

**Brief Explanation: This was from I paper I had to write for an English final I wrote on the Spanish-America War. I had Hetalia in mind when I wrote this as you can see. For those who don't know Yellow Journalism was the idea (basically) where someone could write anything they want in order to sell papers. The paper called for a 3rd person narrative at the beginning and this was what I came up with. **

**A/N: I know this is kind of cheap, but all of my friends liked it and I thought 'Meh! Why not?' I hope you also enjoy it. I don't think I"m going to get a good grade on this paper because I found roughly five spelling mistakes...yeah.**


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